The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts

Isabella turned toward the sound, already knowing who it was. No footsteps she’d ever heard had the gall to sound that confident. Steady. Cold. Regal.

And there he was. Kian.

He stepped into view like the moon had personally lit his path, the last threads of sunlight glinting off his toned chest, smooth and sculpted like it had been carved with care by some ancient forest god. His bare torso gleamed with a faint sheen of sweat from the heat of the day, every defined line of muscle visible beneath his perfect looking skin. His abs—by the ancestors—were sharp enough to cut through the clay walls behind her hut. His white hair, short and tousled from his journey, caught the light like fresh snow, only adding to the divine-in-the-wrong-way thing he had going.

And of course, that icy air around him was ever-present, wrapping around his form like an invisible mantle of authority. Most people would buckle under the pressure. But not Isabella. Oh no, not her.

Because when his silver eyes landed on her, that cold aura thinned. Barely. A flicker, like a shadow hesitating in the sun.

And Isabella?

She gawked. No shame. Not an ounce.

"Damn," she muttered under her breath, then louder—so loud even the birds seemed to stop chirping—"Boo, you fine."

The two beastmen standing as guards near her hut visibly twitched. One of them—a young lion beast with wide eyes—whispered to the other, "Did she just say that to our king?"

The other one nodded stiffly, eyes darting like he expected lightning to strike. "Is she not scared of getting beheaded?"

Isabella didn’t even blink at them. "Don’t worry," she said offhandedly. "He can’t behead me. I’m too pretty for that."